


Ghost Words

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Erotica, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-09
Updated: 2006-08-09
Packaged: 2018-10-26 14:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10788903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: "He used to write in diaries.  Now your skin is his parchment."





	Ghost Words

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Ghost Words

He dips the quill in ink a shade deeper than blood and looks at you, looks _through_ you. And he smiles, a gleam of white teeth, the flash of a knife in the darkness. The quill is ink-laden, heavy and weighted.   
  
_Magic needs words_ , he once told you. _Words provide the power_.   
  
You let your robes fall and pool at your feet.   
  
He used to write in diaries. Now your skin is his parchment.   
  
The tip of the quill brushes against you: _Mine_.   
  
*   
  
Each night, lying in bed, you fashion a letter. You tell him your secrets. You write out your fantasies. You give him your soul. Each night, with a lick of your wrist, the parchment flares brightly and burns away. A pile of ash on your pillow, before you drift away in dreams.   
  
*   
  
When you were a child, the strike of the clock heralding midnight sent swirls of fear through you. There were specters in the dark, just beyond your fingertips. They were waiting to press against you just as the night pressed in on you, and you waited it out, waited until the sun stretched its fingers across the sky, and the feeble, dove-grey light of dawn seeped into the black, before you let your eyes fall shut. Before you felt safe.   
  
_He_ haunts you now, though you welcome it. You wrap the fear around you like a cold blanket. Now you quake, and it’s comforting.   
  
Now, you crave the dark.   
  
*   
  
You dream of dark ink smeared across pale skin. You dream of hands that press you down, and lips that brand you. You dream of the cold eyes of death.   
  
You only ever remember the touch of a hand, the wet press of a frigid mouth. You only remember the words and sweet, shameful moans. You remember kisses that are dark and ash in your mouth.   
  
Awakening with his name on your lips feels normal. Opening your eyes to find yourself in a cold sweat, with your heart thump thumping and your limbs sated and heavy has become habit. You stretch in your bed, damp and sated. You remember a smile full of unwanted truths.   
  
*   
  
_We’re all a little in love with death_ , he whispers in your ear, as the ink from his quill dries red on your skin. His eyes are the only part of him that you can see, though you feel him all around you, over and under and inside. He’s laughs in your ear.   
  
*   
  
It’s dark and dangerous. You’re playing with something hot and bright, and any moment it’s going to turn you to ash. You never imagined you’d become addicted again. You can’t help but crave it.   
  
You write. It’s no longer the worshipful words of a child, messy handwriting scrawled in a leather bound book. Then, it was different handwriting every day, a little girl trying to figure out who she was. A little girl using words to make friends.   
  
Now, your script is neat and familiar, slanted and mature, as every scrape of the nub on parchment that is only moments away from the burn of flame sends a stroke of comfort down you spine, as if a hand is caressing you. Words are powerful, and you’ve figured out who you are.   
  
*   
  
You tell no one.   
  
It’s your secret. He’s always your secret.   
  
*   
  
_My darling_ , he whispers against your skin. His breath is like winter wind. There is a frigid sort of heat in his eyes; it burns you. </i>Come to me.</i>   
  
He is the charmer and you are the snake. You bend to do his will, the sound of his voice lulling you into a false sense of calm, of security.   
  
Silk ties snake around your wrists and hold you to the bed. You’re naked, laid bare and open, and you wait for him to mark you as his. His alone.   
  
As if reading your mind, he says, _always mine_ , as he blinds you with a scrap of heavy fabric. The dark presses in on you. His words are sharp, like broken glass against your heart. You would bleed for him, if he asked it of you.   
  
The brush of the quill starts at the tip your longest finger. It moves down, softly, barely there, over the palm of your hand and then sweeps across your arm. The ink it leaves behind is sticky and slick, though it dries quickly enough. It’s as if every inch of your body is connected to the brush. Stretches of pale, freckled skin tense and pucker as it glides along. The instrument moves tortuously slow, sending sensation skating along your skin, raising goose pimples along your flesh. You hold your breath as the brush glances across your shoulder and moves over the slight weight of your breast, nipple tightening as the quill dances across your skin and into the hollow between your breasts.   
  
His whisper is in your ear, ice and wind, and all the while, his quill moves. Over your ribs, across your quivering stomach, before it circles your belly button. Gently, gently, he traces it over your hipbone. And then, right _there_ , over your thigh, where it’s not quite close enough, and your lift your hips and make a sound of pure, physical impatience. He laughs at your struggle, the sound dark and low, and it turns your blood to ice.   
  
This is what you’ve been waiting for. A tongue. Pressed wetly over the lines where the ink has claimed you. He follows the path, his mouth ravenous, and your body hums at the contact.   
  
Over and over, he claims you as his. Feather light touches on your shoulders, ink drying on your collar bone, mouth pressing against your nipple as you press up, needing the scrape of his teeth. His weight presses against you, and he is hard and heavy, and with every sweep of his long fingers you imagine darkly-tinted eyes and too-pale skin and teeth that gleam.   
  
He rises above you. You can’t see him, though you can feel the feral smile against your skin. And when he finally presses inside, laughing smugly in your ear to find you wet and dripping, you cry out, are like water in his arms, as everything inside you goes liquid with need. His lips follow the press of his fingers. He spreads your thighs wide with capable hands and you beg him for more, more pressure, more sensation, and he lets you have it. He sucks and presses and circles you with his tongue. The pressure builds in your stomach, as your hips buck frantically against his mouth, as you say his name over and over and over and promise you are his.   
  
He moves then, gliding up your body, slick with sweat, and your hips lift as presses quickly in. There is pain there, mixed with something wicked and wonderful, and it sears you, marks you as clearly as any of the ink seeping slowly into your skin.   
  
There is pleasure there as well, the sort that starts at your curling toes and is blue and blinding. The friction his cock creates, moving in long, deep strokes within you, makes you weep. When you finally tumble down, when you crash and burn, you feel owned and alive, maybe for the first time ever. He lets himself go then, murmuring and making promises he never intends to keep, and you feel a sort of power, as he cries out above you. Maybe you’ve marked him as well.   
  
*   
  
It’s not hard to remember the way down. The words fall easily from your lips, commandments to open, and you are allowed inside.   
  
It’s easy to slide down the shaft, to land beneath the school in a room as familiar and terrifying and comforting as the night itself. You move quickly. It has all been leading up to this. Reality has finally caught up to your dreams.   
  
A tall boy waits there, with eyes as dark as midnight. He smiles cruelly and raises his wand.   
  
Your blood turns to ash.   
  
  
End. 


End file.
